


When You Find Your Way Back Down

by robotsfighting



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, BIOTA, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:18:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotsfighting/pseuds/robotsfighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Blame It On The Alcohol</i> fic. After Rachel's party, Kurt and Blaine come back to Kurt's house. Blaine has no filter when he's drunk, but he still can't say everything he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Find Your Way Back Down

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from [Clear The Area](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ri0f-Hh6-U) by Imogen Heap.

_How, how, how—_

 _A falling star fell from your heart—_

 _Good times for a change—_

Ten minutes into the fifteen minute ride from Rachel’s party, Kurt finally reached without looking away from the road and knocked Blaine’s iPod out of his hands and onto the floor. Blaine made a noise like it was the greatest of losses and tried to follow it, leaning forward fast enough to make his seatbelt lock up and leave him suspended at a forty-five degree angle, his arms out, his hands waving uselessly down at the bright little screen shining out of the dark. He’d been doing that the whole time, letting thirty seconds of a song play before moving to the next one, and Kurt’s patience was already thin enough without the jangle of random music setting him further on edge.

Blaine eventually settled back, his seatbelt clicking as it unlocked itself, and turned to look at Kurt with a lazy, bright smile. “I was looking for this one, anyway,” he said, and tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

 _Fake Plastic Trees_ crept quietly from the speakers, and Kurt turned on his left turn signal for an empty intersection.

 

Instead of going up the porch steps, Blaine sat heavily on the wet wood and looked guilelessly up at Kurt, smiling with a vacant kind of happiness. Kurt stopped in front of him, brow raised. “What are you doing?”

“We should stay outside,” Blaine said. He reached up and slipped his hand into Kurt’s. “It’s nice.”

Kurt could feel the heat rising in his face at the feeling of Blaine’s cool palm against his. He swallowed. “It’s freezing.”

Blaine frowned. “No, I – come here.” He tugged at Kurt’s hand, his grip tightening, eyebrows knitting together. “You should sit with me. It’s nice, I promise. You’ll see.”

Kurt stared down at the hopeful expression on Blaine’s face and considered pulling him to his feet and making him go inside. But what did it really matter, at this point, if Kurt caught pneumonia or something? Because there was honestly no way that tonight could get any worse. Kurt let himself flop down onto the step next to Blaine, and Blaine made a delighted little sound before pressing close against him, laying his head on Kurt’s shoulder and refolding their hands so that their fingers twined together.

Okay. Maybe tonight could get worse.

Blaine rolled his head on Kurt’s shoulder to look up at the sky. “Stars,” he murmured.

Kurt let his back slump and rested his head on his palm, looking down at the pale-dark contrast of their hands together between their touching thighs. “It’s cloudy,” he muttered. “You can’t see any stars.”

“You have to _imagine_ them,” Blaine insisted, slurring slightly. “They’re still _there_. They’re just – you just can’t see them.” He laughed, cuddling closer against Kurt’s side. Kurt felt warmth spread through him from all the places they were touching, and he ducked his head and closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. Blaine hummed, and Kurt felt it like it was happening inside of his head. “You should stay outside with me.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Kurt managed.

“ _Awesome_.”

Blaine kept humming, snatches of music, the songs he’d shuffled through in the car and some random melodies as they came to him. Kurt kept his eyes closed and concentrated on where the cold still pressed against him, the chill of the air over his skin wherever his coat ( _or Blaine_ ) didn’t cover him. Half of his face was frozen, while the other half rested against the top of Blaine’s head, his hair tickling Kurt’s chin, the smell of his gel invading Kurt’s nose. This could be a learning experience. Something to remember. Blaine got cuddly when he was drunk. Blaine got weirdly loose and earnest.

When Blaine got drunk, Blaine kissed girls and then sang duets from the eighties with them.

But Kurt wasn’t bitter or anything.

He opened his eyes, looking down to see their hands still laced together, and closed his eyes again.

Not bitter at all.

It was just spin the bottle. It didn’t mean anything. Brittany had kissed Sam, and Santana had been all _no me gusta_ about it, and Kurt had laughed at her because it was ridiculous, so really he shouldn’t have felt like it was some kind of betrayal when Blaine had leaned across him and steadied himself with a hand on Kurt’s knee and lingered for maybe thirty seconds too long against Rachel’s mouth. Blaine was gay and drunk, so it meant nothing. Like the way he was holding Kurt’s hand now and leaning against him with all of his weight. Nothing.

Kurt heard the soft sound of a car slowly pulling up to the house, and he opened his eyes and lifted his head to see Finn’s beat-up truck at the end of the lawn, drawing up to the curb before the headlights and engine cut out. He heard the loud squeak of the door opening and then closing, and Finn came around the front of the car, looking down at his phone in one hand, jingling his keys in the other.

Halfway up the lawn, he looked up, saw them sitting on the porch steps, and paused. He blinked at them, then lowered his eyebrows in question at Kurt. Kurt shrugged, and it jostled Blaine, who giggled quietly and lifted his head only when Finn started up the lawn again and stopped in front of them.

“So _tall_ ,” Blaine murmured, tilting his head back to stare way up in amazement.

Finn looked from Blaine to Kurt, amused. “He okay?”

Kurt shrugged again, and tried to push Blaine away from him, unwinding their fingers and scooting over on the step with his hand on Blaine’s arm to keep him from following. “He’s an idiot, but that isn’t really different from him sober, a lot of the time.” Blaine was staring down at his now-unheld hand, frowning and flexing his fingers as if unsure what had happened to them. He looked over at Kurt and went to reach out again, but Kurt pushed his hand back, looking up at Finn. “Did you get everyone else home all right?”

“Yeah,” Finn said, distracted. Blaine was tilting perilously away from the momentum of Kurt’s push; Finn reached out and stopped him with his arm, keeping him upright. “Puck almost puked in the back, but I got him and Lauren out in time.”

Kurt made a face. “Thanks for the details. Can you help me get him inside?”

It was pretty obvious from Finn’s expression that he wasn’t sold on this plan. “He just spent, like, twenty minutes making out with Rachel. Why am I helping him?”

Kurt scowled. “It wasn’t twenty minutes.” Blaine started ineffectually reaching for Kurt’s hand again, and he pulled away without looking. “Look, I’ll cook you whatever you want for dinner tomorrow night if you do this. I can’t get him upstairs without waking up my dad and Carole.”

Finn sighed. “Fine. But you’re making, like, the best cheeseburgers _ever_.” He stooped down and put his hands on both of Blaine’s shoulders, shaking him very lightly so that Blaine pulled his focus in to some approximate location near Finn’s face. “Okay, little dude. I’m gonna pick you up. If you puke on my back, I’m gonna drop you down the stairs.”

“I won’t puke,” Blaine insisted, smiling. “I feel _awesome_.”

“Good,” Finn grunted. He hooked his hands under Blaine’s armpits and hoisted him up into a sort of loose fireman’s carry, then stood straight.

“Weeeeee--”

Kurt stood up quickly and went around Finn’s back to duck down and talk to Blaine. He put his hands on either side of Blaine’s face to get his attention, and Blaine looked up at him, as if amazed to be seeing Kurt from this angle. Kurt pitched his voice quiet and serious. “Blaine,” he said, “you have to be as quiet as humanly possible. If anyone hears us, we’ll be in a lot of trouble. And I will personally see to your grisly murder.”

Blaine nodded messily, and lifted his hand to mime zipping his mouth shut. Kurt let out a relieved breath and stepped back. “Okay, Finn,” he said.

The stairs were a comedy of errors taken slowly, one at a time, waiting every few seconds in agonizing silence to listen for the sound of his dad’s footsteps crossing to his bedroom door. At the top, Kurt saw Finn hesitate, before moving into Kurt’s room and letting Blaine down softly to his feet. He swayed for a second, but Finn reached out and balanced him, looking over his shoulder.

“He’s staying in here tonight?” he asked, cautious.

Kurt felt an immediate flush of anger and embarrassment. It made his skin tingle. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw setting. “I’m not going to take advantage of his drunkenness, or whatever you--”

“Oh, man, no way,” Finn interrupted. He held up his hands, but Blaine swayed dangerously without Finn’s support, so he had to reach back out again and grip his shoulder. He looked back at Kurt. “I’m not worried about _him_ , dude. I’m worried about _you_.”

Kurt felt some of the tension leave him, softening him slightly. He slouched and crossed his arms over his chest, looking pointedly away. “I doubt that’s going to be a problem,” he muttered. “But if it is, I’m sure I can manage a drunk prep school boy who is two inches shorter than me.”

Kurt looked back to see Finn eyeing him up and down, unconvinced. But all he did was shrug. “Okay, man,” he said. “But my door’s open if you need me or anything.”

Kurt waved a hand at the door. “Good night, Finn.”

Finn slowly took his hand off of Blaine’s shoulder. When Blaine didn’t waver, he took a careful step back, watching, then moved for the hall. “Night,” he said, slipping out.

“Night, Finn,” Blaine stage-whispered at Finn’s retreating back.

Kurt swept his eyes over Blaine. He was a wreck; his coat was still on, buttons done and undone, his hair puffy and stiff over his scalp, his eyes glassy and staring. But he saw Kurt looking at him, and he smiled, warm and bright, trusting, and Kurt’s heart dropped to his stomach, complicated with fondness and desperation and annoyance all at once. He let out a breath and stepped forward, his fingers working to open Blaine’s coat. “I should have taken this off downstairs,” he murmured.

Blaine tilted his head down to watch Kurt’s hands moving over the gray material. “I like your hands,” he said softly.

Kurt stopped, blinking down at his fingers on the last button. Then he continued, his breath a little more shallow than it had been before, and didn’t say anything. When the coat was open, he carefully pulled the shoulders down and slipped behind Blaine to take it off and fold it over the back of the chair near his vanity. When he turned back, Blaine was staring across the room and lifting his arms slowly. “ _Bed_ ,” he said, like it was the only word he knew anymore, making grabby-hands in the bed’s direction and zombie-shuffling forward. Before he could take more than a step, Kurt went around him and stopped him with a hand against his chest. Blaine blinked at him. “Bed?”

“No,” Kurt said. He took his hand away. “I’m not letting your head anywhere near my linen with all of that gel in it.”

Blaine’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. He raised his arms and patted at his hair with both hands. “It isn’t even in there anymore.”

Kurt quirked a brow, unimpressed. “Try to run your hand through it.”

Blaine complied. He was halfway through when his fingers caught, stuck in the tangles of loose, hardened gel suspending his hair in a woven helmet. He frowned, tugging ineffectually.

Kurt sighed and pulled his hand down. “Blaine.” Blaine looked at him, unblinking, taking a little breath with the effort of focusing. Kurt hesitated, uncertain suddenly. He swallowed. “I’m going to wash the gel out of your hair,” he said. “All right? You can tell me not to.”

Blaine didn’t hesitate before smiling and nodding. “Okay,” he said. “Cool.”

Kurt paused. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Blaine frowned. “Why is that bad?”

Kurt blinked at him for a moment, then shook his head. “It isn’t,” he murmured. He gripped Blaine’s arm in his hand and turned for the door, leaning out first to look up and down to hall, listening closely for any noises in the house. There was nothing. Just Blaine breathing behind him, and the muffled sounds of Finn snoring in the next room. Kurt looked over his shoulder. “Remember. Quiet.”

Blaine nodded, his expression very serious, and slipped his arm out of Kurt’s grasp in order to take his hand instead. Kurt’s pulse jumped at the contact, and he grit his teeth, moving them carefully out into the hall and across to the bathroom door. He opened it and pushed Blaine inside, then spun in and closed the door slowly, careful of the way it tended to creak. He heard the latch click, then turned the lock and flipped the light on. He turned around—

And saw Blaine, his back to him, pulling his cardigan and shirt up to his shoulders. Kurt made a panicked little noise and hurried across the space between them, tugging Blaine’s clothes back down. “What are you _doing_?” he hissed, blushing furiously. (The muscles in Blaine’s back had been very visible and very well-defined for that few seconds; it was the way Kurt felt sometimes when Blaine was lying on his stomach on his dorm bed, studying, and his shirt rucked up enough to show a strip of skin between his t-shirt and his pajama bottoms, and it made Kurt feel _guilty_ , like it was _wrong_ , when he knew it wasn’t and he couldn’t help it, he would never be able to help it.)

Blaine looked over his shoulder, confused. “Shower?”

Kurt blanched. “ _No!_ ” He put his hands at Blaine’s waist and guided him backwards, toward the tub. “Sit,” he said. Blaine did, looking up at him. His back met the side of the tub. Kurt nodded, then reached for a clean towel from the shelf next to the sink. He bent at the waist over Blaine. “Lean forward.” When Blaine complied, he tucked the towel high around Blaine’s shoulders and pushed him gently to sit back again. Blaine seemed to understand, then, and smiled, letting his head drop back over the edge of the tub. He started humming again, something low and quiet, and Kurt was distracted for a moment by the way his Adam’s apple vibrated with the changes of pitch. He shook his head, then went to wash out the cup sitting on the counter.

When he knelt next to Blaine, he tugged the shower curtain back and out of the way, tucking it in next to the taps before turning them on, carefully balancing hot and cold. He could feel Blaine’s eyes rolled to the side to watch him, and felt the heat crawl up his neck. He checked the water with his fingers, then filled the cup and turned to Blaine.

“Tell me if it’s too hot,” he said quietly, putting his hand on Blaine’s shoulder and tipping the cup close against his scalp, letting the water wash back over his hair. Blaine sighed and closed his eyes, smiling lazily. Encouraged, Kurt filled the cup and did it again, higher, using his free hand to keep the water from reaching Blaine’s eyes. He worked his fingers gently back, loosening the hold of the gel while setting down the cup and reaching for his shampoo.

Blaine inhaled deeply through his nose when Kurt began to rub suds in little circles against his scalp. “I love the way your shampoo smells,” he sighed.

“It’s nice,” Kurt agreed. Expensive, too, but it might do something about whatever damage Blaine did to his hair on a daily basis. Blaine said something else, but Kurt didn’t catch it. He sat back a little, glancing down at him. “What did you say?”

“I said, it makes your hair smell amazing,” Blaine murmured, eyes still closed.

Kurt stared down at him, feeling like the air was never actually going to get back into his lungs. “I – what?” When exactly had Blaine been _smelling Kurt’s hair_?

Blaine cracked his eyes open a little. “It does, it smells really good.” He closed his eyes again, letting out a breath that bowed his chest and relaxed him further against the porcelain. “I’ve thought about this before,” he drawled, tilting his head further back over the lip of the tub, collarbones peeking out through the open buttons of his striped shirt. “It feels even better than I thought it would.”

Kurt gripped the edge of the tub with a hand that was whitening at the knuckles. “You’ve – you’ve thought about me washing your hair?” he managed, his voice a little higher than normal, which was _saying something_. Blaine didn’t answer, just started humming again, the sound echoing a little into the basin, under the sound of the running water, and Kurt shook his head, closing his eyes. _I am not listening to another word you say tonight,_ he thought desperately.

He washed the shampoo out, watching it roll down towards the drain with each cupful of water he poured over Blaine’s hair. Blaine’s breath was even and slow, and Kurt worried quietly that Blaine had fallen asleep. He reached for the conditioner and started to work it through Blaine’s wet curls, when Blaine finally opened his eyes fully and turned his head to be able to look at Kurt’s face.

“Kurt,” he murmured, “I want to tell you something.”

Kurt kept working the conditioner in. “What?” _I am not listening to another word you say tonight_ , he repeated.

“I really, really care about you.”

Kurt snorted. His nails scratched lightly at Blaine’s scalp. “You’ve already told me that before.” _It was pretty horrible._

“No, but – I really do,” Blaine said, insistent. “I care about you – god.” He cut himself off, blinking up at the ceiling as though the enormity of it was too much to put into words, and it was only just crashing into him now. Kurt stared, sitting still beside him with his wet hands in Blaine’s hair. “You’re my best friend,” Blaine said, earnest, like it was overwhelming. “You’re the _best thing_.” He reached out and gripped Kurt’s shirt, keeping him close. “I can’t even imagine my life without you anymore. Without you in it. I didn’t know – anything. I didn’t know how to be _anything_.”

Kurt closed his eyes and bowed his head. He tried to steady his breathing, but it was a losing battle; he felt like he was either going to start crying or start screaming, because it was probably the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to him, and Blaine had to be _falling down drunk_ to say it, on the worst, most confusing night ever, and pretty much at this point all Kurt wanted to do was sleep and wake up tomorrow and pretend that none of this had ever happened.

He took his hands out of Blaine’s hair and refilled the cup. “You’re very drunk,” he said, his voice wavering only very slightly, and poured the water carefully through the conditioner.

Blaine’s hand tightened against Kurt’s shirt, and he was quiet for a moment. Kurt filled the cup again and tipped it, following the water with his fingers to make sure Blaine’s hair was clear of product – but Blaine stopped him halfway by pushing him gently back onto his heels. Kurt looked at him in confusion, but Blaine just stared into his face. His eyebrows drew down and together. Something like vague worry crept in behind his eyes. “You’re upset,” he said.

Kurt sighed. “Blaine--”

Blaine leaned forward, hair dripping down his face and ears, into the towel around his neck and shoulders. His other hand gripped Kurt’s arm. He looked confused, sort of quietly panicked – and very, very guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Whatever it was. I couldn’t have meant it.” His eyes were wide, a little hysterical, and he was _afraid_. “Please don’t be mad at me, Kurt. I really can’t – please, don’t be mad at me.”

Kurt stared at him, mouth open, watching the rant build. Blaine looked _absolutely terrified_ that Kurt might be angry with him, like it was the _worst possible thing_ that could happen, to his drunk-logic brain. Mid-word, Kurt reached out and pressed his hand over Blaine’s mouth to make him stop. Blaine did, but over Kurt’s palm his eyes were still guilty, still a little desperate. Kurt kept all emotion out of his voice, mostly because he couldn’t decide which emotion he was _feeling_ (anger, annoyance, guilt, desperate stupid love). “If I pull my hand away,” he said, monotone, “will you stop?”

Blaine nodded. When Kurt took his hand back, Blaine took in a breath like he’d forgotten he could breathe through his nose. He met Kurt’s eyes, and he just looked desperately sad. His shoulders hunched, his body going compact, but he kept Kurt’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.

Kurt took the edge of the towel around Blaine’s shoulders and ran it over a rivulet of water down his face. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for,” he murmured, confused. “ _I_ don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

Blaine opened his mouth, then closed it. He bowed his head, pulling hand hands back into his lap, and closed his eyes. Water fell in beads against his shirt, soaking in dark circles against his jeans.

Kurt let out a breath and pulled the towel up to cover his hair, gently rubbing the water out of his curls. “It’s fine, Blaine,” he said softly. “We’re fine.”

Blaine’s shoulders hunched further, and his forehead rested against Kurt’s chest. Kurt closed his eyes and let Blaine stay there. When Blaine’s hair was as dry as he was going to get it, Kurt let his arms fall in a loose circle around Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine pressed into the hug, his arms going around Kurt’s back. “I’m so, so sorry,” he whispered again.

Kurt ran his palm up against the dampness of Blaine’s hair, an automatic soothing gesture. Then he pulled back, breaking Blaine’s hold of him, and stood up. He helped Blaine climb unsteadily to his feet and took the towel from his shoulders, tossing it into the hamper by the door. Blaine watched him the whole time, following the movement with his eyes, still mournful and guilty and lost above his frown.

Kurt led him back into the bedroom and sat him on the edge of the bed before kneeling down to unlace his shoes. Blaine’s hand found his shoulder and pressed there, warm through Kurt’s shirt. Kurt’s hands didn’t hesitate; he just wanted to go to sleep, _all he wanted_ was to go to sleep and to stop being confused by all of this, by whatever Blaine thought was happening here, by whatever Blaine was guilty about because it certainly wasn’t the thing with Rachel, or being drunk, or _anything_ that made any sense to Kurt at all. He put the shoes gently aside and stood Blaine up again to pull the blankets down and tuck him carefully under them. Blaine looked at him for another moment, then closed his eyes, turning his head into the pillow.

Kurt went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajamas. He honestly didn’t care, this once, about his skin care regimen, or changing in the same room as Blaine, or anything like that. He was bone-deep tired, now, and it was some ungodly hour in the morning, and it was time for tonight to end already. He tucked his clothes gently into his laundry bag and pulled on his pajamas, one eye on Blaine’s back the whole time. He didn’t shift.

Kurt turned off the light and climbed into bed, finally.

He kept as close as possible to the edge, the way that he felt Blaine was doing, with a huge expanse of mattress between them, a buffer zone. He closed his eyes and let all of his breath out through his mouth, feeling himself sink into the mattress.

He was drifting when he felt Blaine’s hand clasp his and draw it into the space between them. He blinked his eyes open and looked over his shoulder. Blaine’s back was still to him, but his arm was stretched out under the blanket, and their hands were laced together at the center of the bed. Blaine’s head was bowed.

“I really do care about you, Kurt,” he said very softly, sadly. “Even if I wasn’t drunk, I’d be telling you that. I think it all the time. Every time I look at you.”

Kurt turned his head back to stare at the wall across from him. He swallowed, his eyes slipping closed again. He could feel tears, somewhere, but he knew he wasn’t going to cry. They just existed, inside of him, with everything else. He ducked his head down against his pillow. “I care about you, too,” he said quietly, after a long moment. “Go to sleep.”

Kurt could hear when Blaine drifted off, but his grip on Kurt’s fingers never loosened, until Kurt followed him down.

 

He woke up a few hours later, on his back, looking up at the ceiling. There was something heavy on his chest, and it confused him at first; he tried to push it away from him, but it didn’t give. It was soft and warm and breathing, and when he looked, the last dull vestiges of sleep clearing away, he saw that it was Blaine. His head was tucked against Kurt’s shoulder, his arm wrapped over Kurt’s waist. His back was rising and falling steadily, warm breath gusting over Kurt’s collarbones, and Kurt couldn’t move at all.

So he didn’t.

He lay on his back, watching the grey light against his ceiling turning slowly pink, then orange. He promised himself silently that he would get up when he heard his father stirring, he would do his skincare ritual and he would wait for Blaine to wake up and everything would be normal. They would laugh about last night, about the party and the kiss and the duet, and Blaine wouldn’t remember anything else. He wouldn’t remember the way he went to sleep clinging to Kurt’s hand like to let go meant to lose something forever. He wouldn’t remember the weird sadness that Kurt couldn’t understand.

Kurt watched the light changing on the ceiling.

He waited.

**Author's Note:**

> The songs at the beginning, by the way, are: [Speechless](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YYPZv-1bW_E), by Lady Gaga; [Cosmic Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfBY96qxVRQ) by Florence + The Machine; [Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMQbzLrvwlE) by The Smiths; and [Fake Plastic Trees](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUJP0BwWB5Q) by Radiohead.


End file.
